A Lesson In Revenge
by Leaving-My-Mark
Summary: After the Hounds of Baskerville, John decides to get a little payback on Sherlock. But how does one go about exacting revenge on London's brightest mind? With a little help from Lestrade and modern-day technology, John gives Sherlock a lesson in revenge.


**A Lesson In Revenge**

_A/N: This is my first Sherlock fanfiction, so go easy on me. Please be constructive but also enjoy! _

_Inspiration Behind This: I felt bad for John when I saw Sherlock sitting in front of the security screen almost enjoying himself as he watched John get the pants scared off of him in the lab during Hounds of Baskerville. I thought he rightfully deserved some good, old-fashioned revenge. Of course, thinking of a way to trick Sherlock Holmes wasn't easy, but then I remembered a certain DI with a certain bit of useful material…_

_Setting: Between Hounds and Reichenbach. Enjoy!_

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><p>Sherlock Holmes knew that John Watson was not a giggling kind of guy. Yet there he was on a seemingly ordinary (or as ordinary as it could get at 221B Baker Street) and uneventful day, sitting before his laptop as he dissolved into chuckles poorly masked behind a cupped hand.<p>

In one of the very rare documented cases of Holmesian confusion, Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and steadied his sharp, observant eyes on his flat mate. The most he could deduce, however, was that John found something on his screen quite amusing; something particularly funny because he was giggling, and giggling was _not _something Sherlock had ever seen the man do. But he was also trying to stave his amusement, even conceal it. No matter how poor a job he was doing, it was painfully obvious to the detective that his flat mate did not want him to know about it.

This theory was further proved when Sherlock, unable to keep himself in his chair and watch John continue to stare at the screen in mirth, got up and walked over. Just as he leaned in to get a better view, however, the doctor closed the laptop three-quarters of the way, got up quickly, and moved to the other end of the room.

Sherlock straightened up and continued to stare. Yes, John Watson was certainly hiding something, but what on earth was it? The fact that he couldn't figure it out but should be able to was only beginning to irritate him.

Figuring he'd wait it out until John finished with his laptop or momentarily left the room, Sherlock impatiently sat himself back down in his armchair and let the wait begin.

Two hours later, John was suddenly sitting at the table eating a sandwich and the laptop was nowhere in sight. He'd had another one of his "spacey moments" or so John called them. In a moment of perfectly masked disappointment, he realized that he had missed his chance.

"Ah, back to the realm of the conscious, are you?" called John from his seat.

"How long?" Sherlock asked, simultaneously looking to the clock.

"Two hours," John simply stated. The clock read 4:30PM.

"You've hidden your laptop. Earlier you were doing something with it. Where'd you put it?"

"Yes, I've hidden my laptop, but I'm not telling you where it is."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked with a childish frown of disappointment.

"Because I don't want you 'borrowing' it again. Although, I'm sure it won't take you long to find, anyway. Who am I to challenge the Great Sherlock Holmes to a game of hide and seek?" said John between bites of his ham and cheese.

Sherlock scoffed. "No, well of course it won't take me long. But it leaves me with more work to do," he said, sounding like a whiny schoolboy who was being made to do his homework.

"I suppose you'll be off on your search, then?" said John dismissively. "I know you won't be hungry; you never are."

"Correct on both accounts, John," said Sherlock, rising from his seat at last. "I think you're actually beginning to observe."

"I'll try not to take that as an insult."

With that, the doctor returned to his sandwich and the detective set off to find the laptop. He'd already concluded it wasn't in the main room, so he headed into John's room. John already knew Sherlock's was off-limits and even if it wasn't, it would be pointless to hide anything there. Sherlock always knew when someone had rifled through his things. Like his sock index. As John Watson had already learned, he was never to mess with Sherlock's sock index.

John's room was, of course, not nearly as hectic in appearance as Sherlock's. Unlike his, John's room did not contain much aside from the bed, bedside table, a desk, a dresser, and a bookcase—poorly organized, Sherlock might add—by subject and author. Most of the books were related to medicine or warfare, although there were three dedicated to the psychological affects of war on soldiers and six of them that were pleasure reading, one of which, Sherlock noted with a snort of derision, was a collection of Edgar Allen Poe's C. Auguste Dupin stories.

He'd told John to sell the Poe collection; to get his money back. Ah, but then John had told him he'd had the now worn copy since he was small, so of course he wasn't going to get rid of it no matter how lousy the story was. It held sentimental value.

In less than a minute, Sherlock found where his flat mate had hidden his laptop. With a roll of his eyes and a sigh at how typically John it was, Sherlock opened the third drawer down in the dresser and retrieved the item of inquiry.

_Honestly, John, haven't I taught you anything?_ Thought Sherlock, sitting down on the edge of John's bed with the laptop on his lap. He flipped it open and typed in the password, having already guessed what it would be. John's passwords were always so pathetically easy to crack.

**Incorrect Password. Try Again.**

To the detective's utter chagrin, the password was incorrect. Which was unusual, because Sherlock had never not gotten it on the first try. Once again, he set his fingers to keys and typed in a second password.

**Incorrect Password. Try Again.**

_All right,_ Sherlock reluctantly conceded. _Perhaps it is possible that at some point, I'd be wrong at least once. But twice? In a row? _No, this was inexcusable. Dare he say it, but was John being abnormally clever? Perhaps he _had _taught the man something after all.

For a full minute, Sherlock sat thinking about what else John might use as a password and what he wouldn't use as a password that he might suddenly be using. And then he thought briefly about what he would do if he was wrong one last time. Would he let it go or confront his flat mate?

No longer wishing to contemplate that shameful path, Sherlock made a final attempt at the password, dearly hoping he was right.

**Incorrect Password. You Have One Password Attempt Remaining.**

Frustrated, Sherlock lifted up the laptop, got up, and left the room. "John!" he called rather irritably as he walked through the hallway in his dressing gown. "John!"

"I'm right here, Sherlock, there's no need to yell," said John, who had just finished his sandwich half a minute ago and was only now rising from the table.

Sherlock, standing right in front of him now, turned the laptop screen outward and displayed it to John. "You're up to something. Now tell me, what's going on?"

"What makes you think something's going on?" John asked, sounding just a tad exasperated.

"The fact that you were giggling today. You don't giggle. And whatever it was that amused you so was something you didn't want me to find out about. You were trying to conceal it. And then there's the fact that I can normally guess your password in one shot without hardly using my deduction skills."

"And instead it took you three. You've got one last chance."

"Yes, I know that," Sherlock replied impatiently. "What is it that's on here that you don't want me to see?"

"I don't not want you to see it," replied John calmly, "I just don't want you to see it _yet_."

The detective furrowed his eyebrows. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It's supposed to mean that I do want you to see it, but I'm waiting for the proper—"

At that moment, Sherlock's phone buzzed. Handing off the laptop to John, Sherlock dug it out of his dressing gown's pocket. He'd gotten a new text message.

John's mouth curled up into a smirk. He set the laptop down on the table and watched his flat mate closely as if to gauge his reaction.

Sherlock opened the message and then paused, confused.

_Remind me what it was that you said about women being inferior?_

_Donovan_

He'd only had just enough time to read the message and be perplexed about it when his phone buzzed again and he received yet another ambiguous text from another unlikely contact.

_If only I'd been on duty that night! The fun I would've had…Consider yourself lucky I wasn't._

_Anderson_

He didn't understand this message a whole lot more than the other, but he still wrinkled his nose childishly at the fact that Anderson had contacted him, even if it was to jeer at him.

His phone buzzed thrice more. Alarmed, Sherlock began to open the three new texts, receiving more as he read through each.

_I've never seen you look so peaceful. Not that I think you look panicked or worried or upset all the time, but just that you look really relaxed. I mean, not that I haven't seen you relaxed or at peace before! I mean, when you're at the morgue trying to solve cases you always look pretty peaceful then—not that I watch you while you work or anything weird like that, but, aww, Sherlock!_

_Molly Hooper_

_Would you like me to buy you a teddy to sleep with for next time?_

_Donovan_

_Sorry, Sherlock. I couldn't help myself. It's just too priceless not to share._

_Lestrade_

_At last, little brother, someone has succeeded in doing the impossible. Do pass along my regards and my congratulations to the good Doctor Watson. -MH_

_I've had this on replay for the past half hour. Popcorn and a movie—perfect way to spend a Saturday afternoon._

_Anderson_

"You've posted something on your blog. Nothing stirs up as much of buzz as the stuff you post on that blog of yours. Oh, what was it? It was long ago…something to do with _Her_—No," Sherlock murmured in horror, having realized what it was that John had done. He'd barely remembered it at all thanks to _Her_.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I guess I just couldn't help myself," said John, feigning innocence with an all too guilty, amused grin on his face.

"Tell me the password," Sherlock demanded.

"What? No, I'm not letting you delete this!" said John incredulously. "No, I'm not taking this down for a while."

"Why?"

"Because it's payback."

"Payback?" Sherlock spat as his eyebrows sunk lower over his bright and infuriated eyes. "Payback for what?"

"Payback for when you drugged me and used me as a lab rat during the Hounds of Baskerville case."

"Is that what this is all about? The conditions were perfectly safe. You were in no danger at any point of that experiment," the detective insisted.

"That's not the point! I thought I was going to die. I _thought_ I was in danger. Danger doesn't have to be physical, Sherlock. It can be mental or emotional, too," John ranted.

"You came out of the drug-induced state just fine. Of course I know danger doesn't have to be physical, but you were never in any. Physical or mental. I came for you before it went too far."

"Yes, but—" Knowing it was clear that it just wouldn't make sense to Sherlock as to why it wasn't okay to drug your friend and scare him half to death, John sighed and dismissed the subject. "Know what? Doesn't matter. I got you back. And considering how hard it is to fool you and keep you out of the dark, I'm rather pleased."

"And although you've gotten your revenge on me, you're still not going to take the video down just yet."

"No."

"When will you?" Sherlock asked almost pleadingly.

"Hmm…not sure," said John, pretending to appear pensive but uncertain. "I think a few days aught to do it."

"A few days! John, you can't wait a few days, you have to take it down now!" he whined.

"For what reason should I take it down?" asked John.

"Because it's degrading," said Sherlock, pouting.

"And since when did you care what people thought of you?"

"Look, you've already allowed my arch nemesis and the two idiots at the Yard see it, so why don't you just take it off your blog now? You've had your fun."

"One day. Wait one day and then I will take it down."

"That's not soon enough!" Sherlock said petulantly. "It needs to go down _now_."

Sherlock's phone buzzed again and, wondering who could be texting him some witty little taunt this time, opened it with a sigh.

_Look at the cute wittle sleeping Sherlock! Oh, this never gets old! Here, have a present:_

_1 File Attached_

_Anderson_

With anger and trepidation, the dark-haired detective downloaded the file and opened it. And to his great agitation, Anderson had sent him something John informed him was called a GIF. It was a looped image of Sherlock in the back seat of a police car, his floppy arms drooped at his sides as his head lolled around in a circle and he muttered nonsense. At the bottom center of the image in big white letters it read: "You can't _drive_ a boomerang, John!"

Shutting off his phone, Sherlock cried, "Now look, I'm a…I'm a…What was it again?"

"A GIF. But come on, you're overreacting!" John replied, rolling his eyes at his flat mate's over the top reaction. "It'll all be forgotten in a couple of days."

"No, no, these things don't just get forgotten. It won't be easy finding any new cases _now_!" the moody detective said before heading over to his armchair, flopping down, and beginning to sulk.

John, knowing he could nothing else, closed his laptop, picked it up, and carried it back off into his room. Five hours later, he returned and, despite the staggering amount of views and comments on the video, removed it as his flat mate had desired.

He got up from his desk in his room and went to Sherlock, still sitting in his armchair. He had his legs folded in front of him and his hands pressed together, fingers spread and touching his chin. He was deep in thought.

The doctor knew better than to expect him to answer or even hear him at all, but regardless John announced, "Sherlock, it's done. The video's gone."

Sherlock did not show any indication that he had heard him. Still feeling a tad guilty even if the revenge _had _been worth it, John awkwardly added, "Okay. Well, um…I'll just make us some tea then, shall I?" The detective gave no reply, but John fixed him some anyway.

"Here. Just drink it. You haven't eaten or drunk anything all day," he said as he set a teacup and saucer on the table in front of Sherlock a few minutes later. "I'll be in my room reading if you need me."

A minute after reentering his room, he began to receive texts from Anderson and Donovan both, protesting the deletion of such a 'nugget of gold' and John's 'cruel deprivation' of their 'core needs'. And by 'core needs' they meant their desire to see Sherlock Holmes, their enemy and 'the most bigoted man in all of England,' suffering the side affects of a powerful drug at the hands of Irene Adler.

Unfortunately for John, the buzzing sound of his phone was his constant companion throughout the night. The bombardment continued until 8:53AM the next morning, after which time it halted permanently. To his astonishment, John found that he had received nearly 500 texts from the pair altogether.

That morning, around 9:10AM, John was having his morning tea, eating a slice of buttered toast, and reading the paper when he received yet another text. Groaning because he thought that Donavan and Anderson had reinvigorated their bombardment, John picked up his phone to send them his first angry retort to their texts. He was going to tell them that he'd report them for harassment to their hire-ups if they didn't quit it, but the threat turned out to be unnecessary, as this latest text was from Mycroft.

_Just so you know, he's not going to let you get away with it so easily. –MH_

Feeling unsettled but determined not to let Mycroft's warning get the better of him, John texted back:

_Thanks for your concern, but I'll be just fine._

_John_

And then he set his phone down and returned to his breakfast.

Eight and a half hours later, he awoke late in the afternoon to the sound of the violin with his face in a puddle of cold tea and the imprint of the edge of a plate on his cheek. Dazed and confused, he looked down and saw his pants stained with droplets of tea that had dribbled off the table. His eyes grazed about the room and found Sherlock standing by the window as he played a soothing tune.

"Sherlock?" John called, his voice sounding as groggy and languid as he felt. He made to get up out of the chair, which was beginning to feel quite uncomfortable, but found himself teetering on jelly-like legs. Without warning, he lost his balance and went hurdling to the floor, but his face never met the ground. Looking up, he found that Sherlock had miraculously set his violin down and run over to catch him just in the nick of time. How, he had no idea, but thank God he had.

"What happened? What time is it?" he asked.

"I'd have thought it was obvious, John. You fell asleep at breakfast. Must not have gotten enough sleep last night."

Although skeptical, John said nothing. "And the time?" he asked groggily as Sherlock helped him up.

"5:40 in the afternoon."

"5: 40! I've been asleep for eight hours!" the doctor exclaimed.

"Eight and a half," Sherlock corrected.

"No, that can't be right. I slept fine last night. You did something…you messed with my tea, didn't you?"

"I did no such thing," Sherlock said, seeming offended that his flat mate would even suggest such a thing.

"Yes you did. I don't have to have your intellect to know you're lying, Sherlock."

"Prove it," said Sherlock haughtily.

"Give me your phone."

"Absolutely not."

"Hand it over."

"John, you're just cranky because you didn't get enough sleep and thus you fell asleep at the breakfast table. There's no need to go around accusing others of things they're innocent of doing," replied Sherlock. "Why don't you go back to bed?" he suggested.

"No. Hand me your phone. I'm going to prove that you're responsible."

"Make me."

Grunting in frustration, John reached for the pocket in which Sherlock usually kept his phone. Unfortunately, however, his motor skills were too slow (most likely due to whatever drug his flat mate had introduced to his bloodstream) and thus Sherlock was easily able to catch John's arm and hinder his attempt.

"I know you must've taken a video or a picture of me on your phone—Are you really that childish?"

"Don't be silly, John. That's hardly inventive seeing as you've already done it to me."

Frowning, the doctor rolled his eyes for the hundredth time in two days. "This is the second time you've drugged my tea, Sherlock! I don't know if anyone's told you, but friendship does _not _involve drugging other people!"

"I had every right to drug your tea. You posted a video of me in a non-lucid state that nearly went viral!"

"Yes, nearly! But I did that to get back at you for the first time you drugged me! You don't seek revenge on me for seeking revenge! That's not how revenge works!" John exclaimed.

"Well perhaps I've changed the rules," Sherlock answered childishly with his arms crossed over his chest.

Sighing, John stormed into his room and came out a moment later dressed to leave. He took his jacket off the coat rack at the door, pulled it on, and started to head out. "I'm leaving."

"Might want to change your pants before you leave. People might think you've soiled yourself," said Sherlock matter-of-factly.

John looked down, realized he was right, swore, and went straight back to his room. A minute later he came back out again wearing another pair of pants and left without another word.

On his way out the door, he received yet another text.

_Told you so. –MH_

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft," John grumbled as he descended the steps of 221B.

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><p><em>AN: Yeah, John doesn't get away entirely scot-free, but he still got his payback! We can only imagine the Hell Sherlock will face next time he visits the Yard. _


End file.
